


November in His Soul

by RileyC



Category: Richard Jury - Martha Grimes
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another case, another woman for Richard to regret, and frankly Melrose is getting tired of it, especially when it ends in blood. Funny, thing, though, perhaps he and Richard aren't so far apart on this subject...</p>
            </blockquote>





	November in His Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinx_r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinx_r/gifts).



Even in its devastation you could see the house must have been a tremendous showpiece in its day. That nature had crept in to claim the burnt out ruins only enhanced it, creating an otherworldly aspect suggestive of haunting and fairytales. That Gothic tower over there, with its appearance of sturdy construction, strangled in a tangle of thorny vines, might fool you into thinking it would be safe to explore. Anyone who did hack his way through those vines and step inside, would find the reality was decayed and treacherous, and if some princess did slumber within she would most likely be a deadly revenant ready to destroy him.

Richard Jury sighed and looked away to take in the view that swept down to the Celtic Sea. A fishing boat moved out there and he tracked it against the horizon. “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth, whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul--”

“What was that?” Melrose Plant had come up beside him.

“Nothing. Just thinking of Ishmael.”

Melrose gave him a look, green eyes guarding his thoughts. “Ishmael. Right.”

Jury shrugged, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. “It’s the opening to _Moby Dick_ ,” because of course Melrose wouldn’t know that, “where he’s talking about how he needs to go to the sea to lift his spirits.”

“Hmm.” Melrose nodded and turned his coat collar up against a sudden chill. “As I recall that didn’t really work out for him.”

“I suppose not.”

“And anyway, it’s March.”

Jury smiled.

~*~  


_Earlier_

“We’re of one mind, aren’t we, sir?” Wiggins posed this question as he rummaged through his pockets for a flat, metal tin. Popping it open, he selected a foul-looking lozenge and put it in his mouth. “To settle my stomach,” he said as he caught Plant’s questioning look.

His own stomach was currently tied in knots, so Melrose could sympathize. He would hear echoes of those gunshots for quite a long time, he suspected. “Of one mind, Sergeant?”

“About the Superintendent and his women.” Solemn and serious, Wiggins scooted forward on the hard, plastic hospital chair. “Unless they’ve been vetted by you and me—like Mrs. Wasserman and Carole-anne, or your Miss Rivington—Superintendent Jury’s not to be allowed near them.”

Although privately inclined to endorse Wiggins’ scheme, Melrose did feel he should protest the sergeant’s declared intent. “They haven’t all actually been homicidal, Wiggins.”

Wiggins gave him pitying look. “Not what you’d call an endorsement, is it, sir?”

Melrose was spared having to come up with a reply by the arrival of Brian Macalvie. On being told they were still awaiting news of Jury, Macalvie declared his intention to see about that and paused only long enough to tell Wiggins not to go anywhere—“I have need of you, Wiggins.” On that ominous note he departed to set the hospital staff on its correct course.

“What do you suppose he means by that, sir?”

“I don’t know, but I’d do a bunk if I were you, Wiggins.”

Wiggins shook his head and patted his pockets for more nostrums and elixirs. “He probably just needs Mr. Jury’s ways explained to him.”

Well, Richard Jury’s ways were the stuff of magic and mystery. The way he conjured up imaginary persons out of thin air, complete with fascinating anecdotes that encouraged witnesses to bare their souls was especially impressive. Although for sheer devastation, no sorcerer of old could ever hope to match the disarming power of Richard’s smile. Yes, Melrose could see that Macalvie might well require annotations and addendums to work it all out, and who better than Wiggins—Jury’s familiar, if one wanted to draw out the metaphor—to provide it?

Thankfully Macalvie reappeared at that point, with news. “He’s all patched up and ready to go.”

Melrose hadn’t doubted that Richard would be all right. Not really doubted. It was only that there had been so much blood, wet and sticky on his fingers, as Melrose had settled Richard against the folly’s crumbling masonry and peeled blood-soaked cloth away to get a look at the wound

Everyone, including Richard and the paramedics on scene, had insisted it was a minor injury, the proverbial flesh wound. It hadn’t looked like a trifling injury to Melrose. It had looked brutal and obscene and Melrose’s attempts to stop the bleeding had seemed useless. He did think Richard might have drawn some comfort from his presence. Pale, and shivering from shock, Richard had smiled and nodded at him, and relaxed into his touch as Melrose settled his coat around his shoulders and held him upright.

It had been little enough to offer. He hoped it had helped.

“Maybe you should get yourself looked at,” Macalvie said to him. “You’re looking a little green around the gills.”

Wiggins nodded with an anxious look at him. “You do look a bit peaked, sir.”

So would they, Melrose wanted to retort, if, for all they knew, their best friend was dying in their arms. He held it back, however, and waved off their concern with an easy dismissal. “It was a long night. Pot of tea and I’ll be good as new.” 

Wiggins endorsed this plan unreservedly. “That’s the ticket, sir. And make sure the Superintendent has one, too. Frightful careless he can be when it comes to health.”

“Especially when it comes to throwing himself in the way of a bullet.” Macalvie made this pronouncement with the air of a man who’d run out of patience with the world long ago. “Anyway I told him I’m borrowing Wiggins to wrap things up. Ms. Delacourt’s inclined to cooperation now.”

Yes, Melrose had formed the impression Miranda had struck out at Richard more in the spirit of sheer fury at her plans being thwarted than in any desire to elude justice at that point. Reading the note she’d left, the one that lured Richard to the folly, Melrose had formed the idea Miranda envisioned a twisted romantic’s murder-suicide to end it all. That being the case, he could honestly say he had never been more pleased to frustrate someone.

“You won’t need anything more from us, then?” 

“If I do,” Macalvie was already on his way out, Wiggins in tow, “I know where to find you. Get him out of here. Take him home. And for God’s sake, keep him away from women,” he added, echoing Wiggins. “Marry him if you have to!”

“Sir!” Wiggins cried out in protest, though whether in response to Macalvie’s suggestion or the way he was being manhandled out the door was difficult to tell.

“Damn, Macalvie,” Melrose muttered under his breath, judiciously ignoring the curious looks directed his way. 

“What’s he done now?” Richard Jury asked from directly behind him and Melrose gave a start of a surprise.

“What? Should you be on your feet?” Melrose instinctively reached for him, grasped his arm to hold him steady. He looked well enough, although perhaps a bit pale. Thankfully the bloody shirt had been discarded in favor of the change of clothes Melrose had brought him.

“Depends who you ask,” was Richard’s cryptic answer. “What did Macalvie do, besides pinch Wiggins?”

“Nothing. He just thinks he’s clever.”

“He is damnably clever,” Richard said, gray eyes searching his face for further clues. “Was it about Miranda?”

“He did say he expects her to cooperate.” Melrose studied him now. “That note she left,” he ventured, “she had suicide in mind.”

Richard nodded. “I think so. Me first, then…” He shook his head as if to clear it and when he looked at Melrose his eyes were remarkably warm and free of ghosts. “I had no intention of falling in with her plans.”

Melrose nodded as he took that in and examined it, fairly well pleased with what he found. “You were fond of her.”

“Was I?” Looking off at a distance now, Richard shook his head. “Intrigued, perhaps.”

“Hmm. Yes, I was especially struck by her methodical elimination of everyone standing in the way of her and the money, and in particular her skill at framing a ten-year-old girl for the murders.” He glanced at Richard from the corner of his eye. “You weren’t attracted to her?”

“Give me some credit. Something about her pinged wrong from the start.”

 _Something about her pinged wrong_ … “You might have said something.”

“I might have.”

Melrose rolled his eyes, glanced around at the hospital staff. “We should probably go.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

~*~  


_Now_

“I thought I saw her, you know, the Dark Lady.” Jury glanced around along the cliff’s edge, thought about how one false step in the dark or the fog might send one plummeting down to the sea-washed rocks below. 

“Last night?” Melrose looked around, dubious. He’d remember the story, of course. Since he had spent the most time with young Sophie, he had likely heard the definitive account of the tragic Imogen and her tale of faithless love and murder and being cursed through eternity to lure lovers to their doom.

Jury shook his head. “That first afternoon, when the fog was creeping in.” He pointed to the ruins, winced as the gesture pulled on his wound. “She was over there, near the tower, this figure in black, all wreathed in fog. She was…beckoning to me.” He could see it co clearly: the arm clad in black, the white hand extended, fingers crooked to bring him close.

Melrose hunched his shoulders as a sharper breeze blew in off the sea. “Probably some local, hired to play dress up and flit about to encourage the tourists.”

Jury smiled. “Could be. The thing is, for once I wasn’t tempted. I didn’t want to go to her. Sophie’s ghost or my own,” he shook his head again, “it didn’t have any power.” He didn’t blame Melrose for giving him an odd look. He wasn’t entirely sure himself exactly what he was blathering on about.

“Or…” Melrose looked around them again, the ruins, the sea. “Maybe you did recognize her as a portent and that put your guard up. That’s why Miranda didn’t get to you.”

Jury thought about that, nodded. “It’s possible. I did think,” he shot a sideways glance at Melrose, “that I might have come by some immunity just recently.”

“Immunity?”

“Well, falling in love with the right person ought to bestow certain things, like not being susceptible to sociopaths.”

Melrose looked at him, then away; Richard could practically see the gears turning. “I…wasn’t aware you’d fallen in love. Again,” he added, a cross note in his voice.

“Last time, with any luck.”

Gaze fixed on the sea, Melrose asked, “Anyone I know?”

Richard raised his hand, hesitated, followed through and touched the back of Melrose’s head. “Now you mention it…” He let his hand slip down to curve along the nape of Melrose’s neck.

Melrose didn’t move away. 

Jury sighed and nodded to himself. Melrose was right—it _was_ March, and Jury'd had enough Novembers.

~the end~


End file.
